And then, suddenly, without warning, he pushed my father aside and ran out the door. The squeal of his tires pierced the quiet neighborhood air as his car shot down the street.
Cyril never troubled us again.
Chapter 7: Legacy Revealed
We had the clue, but we still had to solve the puzzle. “I hate to say this,” Loni said that evening, as she, Brent, and I sat at the kitchen table, each holding a copy of the poem. “I really, truly hate to say it, but Cyril’s right. This clue doesn’t tell us much. It basically just says that we need to change the numbers 56-11-11 into a word. We already knew that!”
Loni wasn’t sounding confident, and that wasn’t a good sign. I was sort of expecting her to solve the thing right off. To be honest, because I was counting on her, I hadn’t really tried solving it myself yet. Suddenly, I was a little disgusted with myself. It was time to stop being so lazy and get to work. I read the clue through once more, carefully this time. I picked it apart – line by line and word by word. Soon Loni and Brent were doing the same thing. The room became very quiet. The only sound was the rustling of paper and some chewing from Brent’s direction. He had helped himself to some blueberry muffins from our refrigerator.
What was the poem’s secret? On the surface, there wasn’t much to it.
The combination’s not absurd.
Just change the numbers to a word.
Solving this puzzle should not take a century.
The answer is clear – it’s elementary!
‘Century’ was a strange word to be using. Why was that in there? Maybe this was some kind of time puzzle? I thought about that for a while but didn’t get anywhere, so I started on another idea. Maybe, I thought, Jeffrey Morton used the word ‘century’ only because it rhymed with ‘elementary’. Maybe ‘elementary’ was the key word. Maybe…
I don’t know how it happened, but something clicked in my brain, and suddenly I had the answer! “Be right back!” I shouted excitedly. I had never felt such a thrill in my life. I ran out of the kitchen and into the den.
As I ran, it occurred to me that just one week earlier, Loni had run into the den when she needed an atlas to solve the first puzzle. I remembered how she had shut the door behind her, keeping me out. How obnoxious! I left the door open.
I ran to the bookshelf. Unlike Loni, I didn’t need an atlas; I needed an encyclopedia. I pulled down the volume “P” and began thumbing through it. ‘Pepper’, ‘Perch’, Persimmon’ – oops! Too far. Ahh. There it was – big and beautiful. Exactly what I was looking for. I studied it for a few seconds and found that I was absolutely right. I had the answer! I knew the 6-letter word that would open the safe!
Something moved behind me. Turning, I saw Loni and Brent looking over my shoulder at the open encyclopedia. “Periodic table?” Loni asked. “What’s that?”
****
I decided not to tell her, at least not right away. Twice this last week, she had forced me to live through a stupid dollhouse play. Now, it was payback time. I handed the book to Brent and said, “Don’t let her see that!”
Brent held the book away from Loni. He studied it himself for a few seconds. “You’re right!” he cried. “You did it, Dave! We’ve got it!”
“What is it?” Loni asked irritably. She leaned over to look at the book. Brent pulled it farther away.
“Sit down, Loni,” I said. “It’s time for a little lesson.”
She looked at us with disgust. “Just tell me!” she pleaded. I said nothing. I just stood there, waiting. Finally, she sat down. She had no choice. She wanted to know the answer.
I paced back and forth in front of her, rubbing my chin in thought. I hoped I looked like a college professor. “The periodic table is a chart that describes the elements,” I said. “It was the word ‘elementary’ in the clue that led me to it.”
She still looked annoyed, but now she also looked confused. I knew she didn’t know what elements were, since she was a couple of years behind me in school. It was time for me to educate her.
“Atoms,” I said, “are the building blocks of everything. All the things you see around you – even you yourself – are made of molecules, and every molecule is made of atoms. Now, here’s the interesting thing. Very, very interesting, indeed! There are only about a hundred different kinds of atoms. That’s it! One hundred different building blocks that can be put together in different ways to make anything you want! Anything at all!”
I looked down at her. “Do you know what the different kinds of atoms are called, little girl?” I asked.
Now she was really annoyed. Excellent! Her eyes squinted with impatience. “Elements?” she asked.
“That’s right! Elements! Very good. The different kinds of atoms are called elements. Now listen carefully. Every element has a number associated with it, a number that gets bigger as the element gets heavier. Every element also has a symbol. Hydrogen, being the first and lightest element, is assigned the number 1 and is given the symbol H. You’ve heard of the term H2O for water? The H stands for hydrogen.”
“So the word that will open the safe is…” Loni asked.
I ignored her. “The O in H2O stands for oxygen,” I continued. “Oxygen is the eighth lightest element and is given the number 8. It has the number 8 and the symbol O. The periodic table tells you this.”
“I get it already,” Loni said. “Can I please see the book now?”
“What would you do if you had the book?” I asked.
“It’s obvious. I have to find out which elements have the numbers 56 and 11. And then I have to find out the letter symbols for those elements. Right?”
She was quick, no question about it. “Okay,” I said. A grin was back on my face as I turned to Brent. “Go ahead and tell her,” I said.
“Elements 56 and 11 are barium and sodium,” Brent said, looking down at the book. “Barium has the symbol ‘Ba’, and sodium has the symbol ‘Na’. So, there you go!”
“56-11-11,” Loni said. “Barium-Sodium-Sodium, or Ba-Na-Na. Banana!”
I grinned again. Lecture over.
****
After that, we wasted no time. Fifteen minutes after solving the puzzle, at about 8:00 PM, my dad was driving the three of us kids to Arthur Halverson’s house. My mom came along, too.
We had to drive along the beach to get there. The sun had just gone down, and the sky above the ocean was glowing with a mixture of oranges, reds, and purples. I didn’t tell my dad how nice it looked. I wanted him to concentrate on getting to the safe quickly and, well, safely.
We tumbled out of the car as soon as we pulled into Mr. Halverson’s driveway. We ran to the door. When Mr. Halverson opened it and saw the excitement in our faces, he became very excited himself. “You’ve got it?” he asked. “You know the word?” We nodded eagerly. He invited us quickly inside.
“Cyril hasn’t been here all evening,” he told us as he led us through hallway after hallway of the large, stately house. “I’m a little surprised. I wonder what’s happened to him.”
We looked at each other. “Maybe he’s hiding under his bed, afraid of ghosts!” Brent suggested innocently. Loni grinned. I laughed – I couldn’t help it.
We soon reached a room at the far end of the house. “Here it is!” Arthur Halverson said, pointing to a black cube of steel in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you go ahead and try your word?” I squatted down in front of the safe and examined the dials. There were six of them, just as my dad had said. I turned the first one until the letter B was aligned with the tick mark at the top. Then I set the next one to A.
“Banana?” Arthur Halverson said, as I positioned the fifth dial. “Is that the word?”
“Banana and kumquat,” I said, not turning around. “I guess Jeffrey Morton had a fondness for funny-sounding fruits!”
I turned the last dial to A. Click! A muffled metallic sound came f
rom deep within the safe. The door fell open a little ways, about a centimeter or so. My fingers eagerly grabbed the top of the door and pulled it all the way open…
****
I peered in. We all peered in, for we were all incredibly excited. Part of me expected to see the glint of gold, or maybe a tall pile of diamonds or rubies, each stone sparkling with magical light. I even positioned my hand to catch any jewel that might roll off the pile and out of the safe, onto the floor.
Nothing like that happened, though. In fact, when I saw what was inside, excitement drained from my body like water through a catcher’s mitt. Stacked within the safe, in several piles, were notebooks, folders full of whitish paper, and more piles of papers tied together with string. A stack of computer disks sat near the front. And that was it. Nothing more.
Brent must have been as disappointed as I was. “Papers?” he exclaimed. “What kind of treasure is this?”
“I have no idea,” I said, frowning. I mustered up some enthusiasm, reached into the safe, and pulled out a folder. A single sheet slipped out and fell to the floor. I picked it up and looked at it.
What I saw surprised me. It seemed to be the middle of some story. “That’s weird,” I said. “Listen to this!” I read the following aloud:
…the masts! Swab down the decks! Stack the barrels! Heave! Haul! Move! And bring me my dinner!” The commands ceased never. Never! I had no rest from the chains and the whip. Not with Captain Crick there, the hateful monster. Crick, with one eye, one nostril, and ten teeth. My master, my enemy! Enemy of all who roamed the seas! He and his horde of pirates. Evil deeds and evil smells. For me a living hell!
I was a slave to these pirates. A life of wounds, heat, blisters, scars, calluses, rash. And fever. And pain. Fie, I swore that someday I would have my revenge.
Revenge came soon. I began by capturing the seagulls. They would link me to the honest people ashore. Late night, a full moon. The waves rocked our ship gently. The watchman, full of ale, fell asleep. All were asleep. All but me. I found a thin rope, tied the end into a loop. I crept across the deck.
I set down a dead fish. In time, the first seagull appeared. It pecked away at the rotting carcass. I crept closer. Closer. I threw the loop around its head, …
I stopped reading. “And what? What did he do with the seagull?” Loni asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s it for this page. It must continue on another one.” I opened the folder and saw that it contained a whole stack of typewritten pages, probably all part of the same story. And that’s what it was – a story! Interesting enough, I guess, but hardly a treasure.
Suddenly, though, I noticed a large stack of shinier papers behind the typewritten pages. The shine was from lamination – each of these sheets was protected by a coating of plastic. The sheets themselves were ancient, cracked, and yellowed. Scrawled on them were words handwritten in black ink.
I looked closely at the scrawls. They were not easy to read. The handwriting was poor, faint, and very odd.
“What’s it say?” Brent asked, starting to look interested. I looked over at my friend and at my sister, who were sitting quietly beside me. I suddenly realized that they weren’t raiding the safe themselves. Wow! I guess they figured that because I was the one mentioned in the will, I should get to see everything first. I appreciated that.
I looked down again at the paper. “It says, ‘had … to train… the… ship’s… rats…to steal…’ At least, I think that’s what it says. It goes on from there. It’s really hard to read!”
“Ship’s rats?” Brent said. “Maybe it’s from the same story you just read.” I handed him the laminated sheet. “Wow!” he added. “This is really old!”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand this,” I said. I put the papers back into the folder, handed the folder to Loni, and reached into the safe for another one. This folder contained another stack of typewritten papers and another large stack of laminated sheets. The papers inside the plastic were again cracked and yellow with age. They did look different, though. They were smaller in size, and the faint handwriting on them looked distinctly female.
“Is it another story?” Brent asked.
“I’ll see,” I said. I started reading. I guess I started muttering to myself.
“What is it?” demanded Brent and Loni, together.
“Huh?” I asked, looking up.
“You just said, ‘I don’t believe this!’” Brent exclaimed. “What don’t you believe?”
“Listen to this!” I said. I began to read aloud.
My name is Rowena Callaway. I received the Kammecott Legacy from dear old Mr. Thomas, the milliner. He must have heard about the adventures I had during the war. He must have thought they would fit in well with the rest of the legacy.
The time has come to set my adventures down in ink. Yes, the time has come to document my secret life as Eliza Fingilly, maidservant to Landon Hopewell, the wealthy landowner. Mr. Hopewell, who is now very old, would be astonished to learn that my true job when I worked for him was to obtain secret information from his friends in the British army, secrets that I could pass on to General Washington.
Let me start my story at the beginning. My family lived …
“General Washington?” Brent interrupted. “For real?” I nodded. I showed him the original, on the yellowed paper. There was no doubt that it, like the others, was very old.
“There’s a blue folder in there!” Loni said suddenly. “Off to the side, sitting by itself!”
She was right. “I’ll get it,” I said. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside were three pieces of paper, stapled together. The top of the first page said, in large letters:
The Kumquat Legacy: An explanation for Cyril or Dave.
“This is it!” I exclaimed. “It’s a message from Jeffrey Morton!”
“Read it!” Loni said excitedly.
“Well, duh!” I said. Of course I was going to read it. Here’s what the whole thing said:
The Kumquat Legacy: An Explanation for Cyril or Dave.
First, let me congratulate you. The puzzles you have solved were not simple. You have earned the right to the Kumquat Legacy. It is now time to tell you exactly what it is.
Its correct name is the Kammecott Legacy. It was started in the 1600s by Alistair Kammecott of England. Cyril heard me mention it once and thought I said Kumquat Legacy. I never bothered to correct him. After all, why should I? It was none of his business.
Alistair Kammecott was an assistant historian in the Royal Court of London. It was his job, along with other historians, to record the events of the day for future generations. He sometimes liked the job, but he faced a big problem. He was sometimes forced to record things in accordance with royal prejudice. That means that he could only write things that made the people in power – the royal family and their friends – look good. He sometimes found himself exaggerating and even lying in his reporting just to please them.
This upset Alistair Kammecott, for he was a great lover of the truth. He decided to do something about it. He would start his own, private history – one that would never be seen by the royal house. He would write about things as they actually happened. And that’s what he did. In the safe you will find a notebook containing all of his secret reports.
I stopped reading for a second and looked up. Everyone was watching me intently, listening carefully to everything I was saying. From the looks on their faces, I could tell that no one understood yet what Jeffrey Morton was getting at. For that matter, neither did I. I continued reading.
Kammecott also wrote about his own experiences – his own story. He tells, for example, of a secret club that he started in London, a club that existed solely for the purpose of letting club members make fun of the royal family in front of each other – to dress up like them, talk like them, and generally make them look stupid. As you
will see, these personal reminiscences set the standard for the Kammecott Legacy, the treasure you see before you.
Alistair Kammecott died an old man and secretly passed his writings to Oswald Simms, a clockmaker in old London. Oswald also wrote about his personal experiences, expanding the Legacy. Read his story when you can; it’s fascinating. It’s mostly about his amazing inventions – monstrous contraptions designed for the strangest tasks. One machine, for example, used gears and gravity to shovel snow from his front walk all by itself. That way, Oswald could stay inside in the winter, warm, comfortable, and sipping tea. He also wrote about how his neighbors chased him out of town when his fish-cleaning machine went haywire and chased a visiting bishop over the side of a bridge. Poor fellow!
Oswald eventually passed the Legacy to John Featherstone, a young man who moved to America with his family and had the misfortune of being kidnapped by pirates in Florida waters.
“Hey! That’s the guy with the seagulls!” Loni said, interrupting.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess so!”